


Scent Marking

by PepperPrints



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He isn't sure he can remember what a tiger looks like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scent Marking

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Punisher MAX: The Tyger as well -- which provides additional context.

Matt's world consists of an entirely different perspective.

 

His enhanced senses provide him with a benefit, so his life is not quite as dark as another man or woman without sight, but it's only so much. His surroundings are still black, and yet it comes in shades.

 

That sounds like a contradiction, and he supposes it is, but it's hard to find words to describe what he feels and experiences. It's times like this when he can realize how limiting the English language really is. How many times has he had someone struggle to describe something to him, when he can't see it, and have them fumble and apologize for finding nothing suitable? Matt has lived long enough that he's grown used to it, so frustration is rare, but he begins to wonder at the oddity that separates himself from other people. It isn't just the barrier of those with sight and without; it's a barrier of insufficient words to close the gap.

 

Or, at least that's true of English.

 

He visits groups of other people who have lost their vision every so often. In a recent discussion, an older woman brought up something she read: there is a Malaysian language that stretches beyond the pale where English falls short. She explained how she has trouble describing smells, which are something that guides her so well in disability. There are certainly broad strokes: sweets, sours, rots and allures, but sometimes the in between is difficult. It's often hard to describe a scent without describing the object itself which it is derived from. 'Rotten' can be attributed to nearly anything. Is it rotten wood? If so, what kind of wood? Rotten meat? Is it chicken, beef or pork? There was mold in her house, and she had difficulty pointing out the exact issue when she could not recognize its source for precisely what it was. The scent was new, and she did not know how to describe it. All she had to go off of was: rot and mold. That could be any great number of things. Eventually, she had to call upon some assistance, and that did not worry her, but it made her curious. That was when she read up on Jahai.

 

There was a study on the language, and its specific uses of words for scents, and she found it captivating. As he listened, Matt did as well. The woman, in good spirits, said that if English was quite so detailed, she wouldn't have had trouble at all. Words exist for only a certain kind of flower or fruit, whereas English would simply label them all 'sweet' and be done. What caught Matt's attention most, however was the word: plʔεŋ.

 

“A bloody smell that attracts tigers.”

 

Specifically tigers. Nothing else. Other raw foods and blood have a different word. This one belongs to tigers alone.

 

Considering this group of people, there are many in different stages of their condition. Some are more recent injuries, and some have been born that way, and have never seen anything at all. Matt lost his sight at a young age, and he struggles to remember certain sights sometimes. Odd memories fail him, and he wonders how often imagination fills in. One particular thing is animals. His father had taken him to the zoo as a boy, as most parents do for their children, but Matt had been young and since then he finds it difficult to remember what he saw, and what he didn't.

 

He isn't sure he can remember what a tiger looks like.

 

Certainly, his radar sense can fill in more gaps for him than another person. He can identify a tiger by its size, the lumber of its strides and the pitch of its growls. However, he can't remember the small details. How thick are its stripes? How bright is its fur? What about its eyes? What does it look like when it moves? He could read the description of someone gifted with sight, but it doesn't seem to satisfy as much as he would expect.

 

Now, it's more than just the image that escapes him, he wonders at the smell. It's specific, unique and meant to label only this one predator. It's an understandable difference, considering the culture where the word originates; tigers were a danger and one would want to avoid drawing one in. It's meant for a warning, and yet Matt takes it as appealing. He wants to know what it smells like.

 

His alter ego is not ill-named.

 

At night, Matt puts on his costume to take patrol and he thinks about tigers.

 

Absently, he considers stopping by the zoo and visiting its residents, but he doubts that would be a wise choice for tonight. Besides, there are equally dangerous predators on the streets of Hell's Kitchen who have escaped their cages. They ought to be returned behind bars – humanely as possible.

 

A young man shouts and Matt hears it blocks away. Travel by rooftop is speedy and soon enough is dealing with the attempted mugger. He lands between the man and his target, and the crook seems shocked that the skinny, polite businessman that he cornered is suddenly replaced with vivid crimson and hard muscle.

 

To his credit, the man actually manages to grapple with Matt for a moment before he ends it. It only takes one blow with Matt's fist and the man sinks, his intended victim grateful but too shaken to linger with offering his thanks. He makes a call to the police on the phone that was nearly ripped from his hands and then he runs. Matt doesn't mind; he's more preoccupied with the man left unconscious at his feet.

 

No one of particular note. Another face in the ocean of crime that is Hell's Kitchen. He's in poor shape: unwashed and underfed. It all makes Matt's nose crinkle: his clothes are old, dirty, and he has stale blood – not human – somewhere on his person, as well as lice in his oily hair. He's likely driven by desperation.

 

For now, he'll be out cold and harmless. The proper authorities will come collect him soon; Matt's part is done and he returns to the rooftops. He is almost down to another block entirely, when another familiar sound catches his attention.

 

What was he doing here?

 

Matt pauses and debates ignoring it, but he isn't sure who he would be fooling with the idea that he could hear that heartbeat and simply let it be.

 

Not ill-named at all.

 

Matt returns to that alleyway, but he stays on the roof above. He crouches, looking like a gargoyle that belongs on a church spire. The real figure of stone is on the street below him, and Matt can't figure out his intent. That mugger was still on the ground, unconscious and unoffensive, and yet the Punisher lingers on him.

 

Frank moves differently. It's hard for Matt to describe, exactly. It is unlike Wilson Fisk, with all his muscle and the steady drum of his heart. Fisk's footsteps carried real weight, presence, and could not be mistaken. In his right, Frank is strong, but his steps are far from thunderous. On the opposite spectrum, he is nowhere near Elektra, who may as well be made of snow in how little noise she makes. Elektra is impossible to predict and gains her upper hand due to tactics of stealth and misdirection. Frank's body has presence, but it's careful. He disguises his moments well – for anyone other than Matt, he would be silent – yet at the same time he isn't sneaky or evasive; he moves with purpose. He moves with emphasis and surety: predator's strides.

 

Suddenly, unbidden, his old question arises: what does a tiger look like when it moves?

 

Frank steps forward, one heavy boot after the other. It shouldn't be quiet, considering all that weight, but it is. Even the thick leather of his coat doesn't creak when he crouches down to inspect the body beneath him. The noise is like a whisper.

 

Matt's brow tightens. He cannot place what drew Frank here. Why does he care so much about the unconscious body of one crook? He knows what territory he's in; he should be able to guess who is responsible. What is drawing his attention?

 

Frank smells like obvious things: spray paint for the skull on his chest, leather for his clothes, gunpowder for his weaponry. Stronger than that is still the reek of the filthy man below him and Matt remembers:

 

A bloody smell that attracts tigers: it's found in the blood of smaller rodents and dead lice.

 

Jaw clenching, Matt abandons the scene. There are sirens a few blocks down and they will be coming to finish what Matt started. Frank will be smart enough to leave before that happens, he's certain. If he isn't, he earns the trip to jail. Still, as he moves across the city, he thinks about that word: plʔεŋ.

 

Did that smell get on Matt, when the man put hands on him?

 

It must have, since when he returns home, that same heartbeat is outside his door.

 

Matt doesn't even grant the man a chance to speak. There are many things he can excuse, and he has granted Frank Castle a series of second chances, but this is his house. It is one of those certain boundaries of which he is too defensive.

 

The first strike is a clear warning. The club hits inches away from Frank's face, before the rebound returns it neatly into Matt's palm. It slaps against the leather of his glove as he catches it, and he speaks firmly:

 

“You should know better than to be here. Leave, Frank.”

 

It isn't that easy. With Castle, it never is.

 

Unflinching, Frank responds: “Want to ask you something.”

 

It's almost laughable. How many times has Matt tried words with Frank and been dismissed? For once, the Punisher wants to talk. It's the last thing Matt trusts. He won't have this scene in front of his home. He refuses. “I don't want to answer,” he responds curtly. “Leave. Before I make you.”

 

There must have been a time, in his military career, that men could stand to command Frank Castle and receive obedience. Now, however, it seems impossible to imagine. Frank certainly doesn't respond to Matt's attempt at authority. Then again, he's never known the culture of a soldier's life.

 

These fights often come to the same result. Frank hits harder, and will employ means which Matt finds distasteful and underhanded, but Matt is faster. There are no tricks with Frank tonight, no gun pulled or hidden bomb to deafen his senses. It's simple hand-to-hand, and in that, Matt can confidently call himself victor. It's still far from an easy defeat; it never is between them, and Matt earns his share of blood and bruises before he makes Frank fall.

 

It's infuriating in how pointless it all is. All these scars for nothing, nursing swollen skin for what surely will be weeks, all due to Frank's stubbornness and Matt's anger. Frank is on the ground, hands and knees, knowing better than to rise when Matt's club is pressed to his jaw, and Matt feels a rush of bitter irritation. What was this even about? Resisting the temptation to ask; instead, Matt asks a question of his own.

 

“Why were you so interested in that mugger?” He speaks and he tastes blood in his mouth, courtesy of Frank's fists. “He's a nobody. He couldn't have been anywhere near your priorities.”

 

Beneath him, Frank spits his own share of blood out of his mouth before he responds. “Don't know.”

 

Bullshit, Matt is tempted to say, but he can hear Frank's heart; he isn't lying. It's still difficult to accept. The Punisher isn't a man who Matt ever believes has any question in his own motives. He is the definition of black and white. What makes the difference here?

 

Frank adjusts his weight on his limbs, raising his hand to wipe blood from his lips, and the motion draws Matt's attention. He isn't sure why, but that movement feels like an echo, as Frank's shoulder blades shift underneath his jacket. It's always been difficult to him to place what it is exactly about the way Frank moves, but positioned as he is now...

 

What does a tiger look like?

 

“Wanted to ask who he was,” finishes Frank belatedly, cutting through Matt's musing and it makes his brows raise.

 

That was his question? That doesn't make any sense.

 

“I already told you,” Matt reminds, his eyes narrowing behind his mask. He presses the question same as he presses the club against Frank's throat. “He's nobody. Why do you care?” At least he's nobody as far as Matt knows. The man was hardly any sincere threat, and he was in poor shape. He didn't seem like anyone worth of note, unless there was something Matt was missing...

 

Unless there was something just drawing Frank to him – something that didn't have a word in English tongue: blood, lice and predator's allure.

 

In order for him to really understand a tiger's image, his senses are not quite enough. He would have to put hands on the creature, map the contours of its body. The chances of that happening are slim. A predator like that would lash out before Matt came even close enough to touch.

 

But he can touch Frank.

 

The idea seems equally dangerous as touching a live tiger. However, it's also easier to achieve.

 

Frank is still on the ground, likely knowing Matt will simply strike him down again if he tries to rise too suddenly. His hand extends, abortively withdrawing for a moment, before he finally places his hand between Frank's shoulder blades. Frank doesn't necessarily _tense_ , but he does still, as if bracing for a fight that doesn't come. He lets out an exhale, the sound ragged from the beating Matt has given him around his jaw, and it's almost like the rumble of a growl.

 

Or maybe that's imagination.

 

His hand slips up, over the collar of his jacket, and his gloved fingers find Frank's hair. It's longer than he expects, given that Frank is through-and-through a military man. He wonders, absently, how much gray has tinged his hair. He has been fighting this war for a long time, and Matt knows his date of birth. It might not be much; his hair doesn't feel thin or brittle, like it does on aging and graying men. It might just be a subtle thing, the way it creeps along in streaks above the ears – like stripes.

 

That certainly is too much imagination.

 

He withdraws his hand, suddenly – or he tries to. Frank breaks his stillness all at once, reaching out to snatch Matt's wrist before he can pull away entirely. Even with the leather of Frank's gloves muting the sensation, he can feel the press of blunt nails against him. For some reason, he expected something sharper.

 

It would be an easy grip to break, but instead he remains still. The moment doesn't escalate. Frank doesn't lash out again, nor does he try to rise any further; he stays crouched on the ground, not fighting for anything further but also not releasing his grip on Matt's wrist.

 

Matt wants to ask him what the hell he's doing, or again demand an answer to his first question, which remains stubbornly unanswered. Instead, what comes from his mouth is something else entirely: “did you smell it?”

 

Frank is frustratingly hard to read. His heartbeat stays steady and his breathing doesn't waver. Matt asks his question, and he receives nothing in response. He can't tell if Frank recognizes what he's asking, or if Frank thinks he's out of his mind.

 

When the silence stretches, Matt makes an attempt to jerk his arm away, and that is what spurs Frank into action. He grabs both arms and he shoves, offsetting Matt's balance enough that he stumbles and falls beneath him. When it comes down to sheer muscle and weight, Frank is at the advantage, and although he struggles, Matt quickly finds himself pinned beneath him.

 

He opens his mouth to protest, but he is silenced by Frank's teeth sinking into his lower lip. The bite isn't rough enough to break skin, but it isn't gentle either. Considering Matt is already going to be sporting a swollen lip from Frank's fist, the extra attention is more than just a mild sting. He hisses out a breath and unthinkingly he bites back. He should have butted heads, or used his fists, but when his hands raise it's to bury into Frank's hair instead.

 

When Frank's tongue enters his mouth, he tastes blood – blood he put there with his own violent ambition. Absently, Matt realizes he must have also broken Frank's nose; when he nudges his own against it as he draws him deeper, Frank winces in a way which betrays injury. Despite it, Frank doesn't withdraw or desist. He alternates tongue and teeth, which Matt returns in kind, and his breathing turns ragged. He still doesn't understand how it came to this, how Frank even came to be at his front door, and he wonders if Frank simply found himself compelled. That isn't like him; the efficient and forward motivated creature that Frank is doesn't behave this way, but this isn't like Matt either. Every time Matt tries to separate for long enough to ask another question, Frank fills his open mouth with his tongue instead. Matt should bite it, rather than suck on it, but he isn't even sure what he'd ask if given the time to form even two words.

 

Gradually, the fervor of Frank's motions begins to slow. The kiss becomes shallower, bites softer, and his pin is loose enough that Matt can shift underneath him. “Let me up,” is what he manages to mutter against Frank's bloodied mouth, and he's surprised when the man relents.

 

Matt's mouth is a mixture of blood, Frank's and his own, and he touches his fingertips to his swollen lower lip. He doesn't stand, staying seated on the ground, but he does make a gap between himself and Frank. This entire moment is a mess, and Matt can't puzzle out its origin. This confrontation; the mugger; the smell; the tiger; a stupid question.

 

“What does a tiger look like?”

 

Again, words leave his mouth without his conscious consent, but this time Frank reacts.

 

It's a slight thing, but he does hear a quickening of Frank's heart and a stillness in his breath. That reaction, the first real indication of anything on Frank's part, is something Matt latches on to. It somehow seems suddenly important, like it's the core of all things. Frank was stubbornly resistant to everything else, but this made him waver; that meant something – it meant everything. “You've seen one before,” he continues, pushing, “you must have.”

 

“Indochinese.”

 

It is likely one of the quickest, simplest answers he had earned from Frank, but for an instant, it feels frustratingly cryptic. Matt's sightless eyes narrow, his mouth parting then closing again when the history connects. Not Siberian, the popular attraction for zoos in big cities, but Indochinese, which was native to--

 

Matt's jaw tightens and he is silent. In front of him, Frank climbs to his feet, and his voice is a quiet rumble.

 

“Like nothing else.”

 

It's a strange thing, hearing Frank Castle talk about anything with such a tone of honest admiration. It's hidden, underneath how muttering and disinterested his voice appears on the surface. However, Matt can hear his heart, feel his breath; Frank speaks and it's a hidden jewel in dark depths.

 

Matt stays where he is, and he speaks:

 

“Like you.”


End file.
